


In Ruins Lay a Kingdom.

by TayBartlett9000



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: 1918, Armistice, Dark fic, Emotion driven, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Not plot driven, Oneshot, Possibly Out of Character, Sadness, WW1, belgium - Freeform, kingdom - Freeform, short fic, ypres
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21333385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TayBartlett9000/pseuds/TayBartlett9000
Summary: World War I is over and Poirot returns to Belgium for a short visit, only to find his childhood home has been destroyed  by war. But as usual, Hastings has accompanied him.Written for rememberence day 2019.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	In Ruins Lay a Kingdom.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sure at all how good this is. There wasn't much I could do with this story. Not in the terms of plot anyway. It is however emotion driven as this was an idea that has been in my head for some time. The historical significance and references to world war I are certainly the more important factors of this story.   
I do hope that it isn't too bad.

Why had he come? What was he doing here? He didn’t know. He had made a home far away from this place, a home that he had quickly learned to love. So why was he here? It was illogical, irrational and he abhorred indulging in too much unwanted emotion. He certainly preferred using his little grey cells for more productive purposes. 

Aside from that, he didn’t really belong here. This place, though much beloved, was not his home any longer. And yet something was drawing him back to this hunble little kingdom inspight of the devastation he could see around him. What was it? Patriotism? That seemed the most likely reason for this fruitless venture. Though he had been living and working far away from the Western Front, he had known that he had to rturn. Many men had layn down their lives to protect this kingdom and others from the tyranny of fashism and he knew that he had to pay his respects in some way to the men who had faught for this country’s freedom.

But he hadn’t expected what he had seen upon disembarking from the ferry. Hercule Poirot had stepped onto the shore of a country that he no longer recognised. He had read of the widespread devastation but hadn’t even come close to imagining what had truly come to pass. He was looking at the totality of it now, however. What had once been a kingdom built with pride was now a wasteland. Gallant little Belgium had been torn apart. The kingdom Poirot had known since his childhood was gone, a beautiful country ravaged by war.

Poirot’s feet had carried him to Ypres, a city that had often been written about in the newspapers back home in England. Poirot had pictured a landscape ruined by bombs, shells and German occupation and yet even his lttle grey cells had been decidedly lacking when it came to the reality of the situation. Poirot sighed heavily. If he had his way, Hercule Poirot would not linger long in this desolate place. 

Beside him, hastings spoke softly, alerting Poirot to the fact that he was still there. His dear Hastings had accompanied him to Belgium, an act of kindness that Poirot was very grateful for at this point. For all his faults, and they were considerable, Hastings was a very good man at heart. It was his morol support that poirot was in need of now rather than the man’s intellect. Poirot would never have admitted such things to Hastings, however. 

“Are you alright, poirot?” he asked in concern.

Poirot nodded. “Of course mon amie,” he replied quietly, “I just never expected to see such devastation. That is all.”

Captain Hastings nodded. Poirot knew that his friend could understand the turmoil and confusion raging inside his head. Captain Hastings had faught on the front lines himself. He knew as millions of soldiers did the horror that had raged across Europe since the war had begun on that fateful Summer day in 1914. Poirot himself had left Belgium years ago , moving to England as a refugee. Now that he was once again walking through the country of his childhood and younger days, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Poirot walked slowly, glancing this way and that as the people around him hurried on as if desperate to get off the streets and to their destination. The war was over and yet fear still reigned over the ancient city of Ypres, what was left of it in any case. The degredation around him was absolute. This was a city that had struggled for life for a long time. That much was apparent. Poirot and Hastings walked on, Poirot becoming aware of how many buildings were left standing. There were not many, it was true. Ypres had been flattened.

The air was growing cold and the sky was slowly deepening in colour, changing from one of a sapphire blue hugh to one of deep navy. Night was quickly creeping in and Poirot shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him and glancing at Hastings.

“Oh, my poor little Belgium,” Poirot sighed.

Hastings nodded. “It’s like this all across the Western Front, Poirot,” he said sadly, his eyes fixed on some point off in the distance as if he was looking not at the ruined landscape but at the pictures inside his own head. He glanced back at Poirot and added, “France has been badly hit as well.”

Poirot couldn’t help but rinkle his nose in disgust at the very mention of France. He cared not about France. It was the plight of his gallant little Belgium that bothered him.

“You wouldn’t think that we in fact won the war, when one looks at this place,” Hastings said sadly.

Poirot nodded. A very shrewd observation. But then again, one couldn’t very well miss it. He had seen more than enough of Ypres and the damage that befallen it. Though Poirot would have dearly wished for his little grey cells to inform him otherwise, he had the terrible fear that this novle town and the kingdom at large would suffer for a long time before any recovery would be possible.

“Where shall we go next, Poirot?” Hastings asked quietly, “do you want to stay in Belgium for the night and get the ferry back tomorrow morning?”

Poirot halted in his traks for a moment, wondering this himself. Where would they go tonight? Poirot did not at all want to spend a night in this desolate wasteland that was no longer his home. He wanted to go back home. Poirot wanted to escape the ruins of Belgium and return to Britain, though of course Britain too had been through its fare share of troubles and was suffering as Belgium was. “No, mon cher Hastings,” Poirot said gravely, “I no longer wish to remain here. The state of my poor Belgium is not a nice situation for Poirot. Let us return now to England and get on with solving cases. That is at least one thing that Poirot does know how to do. Let us go, Hastings.”

Poirot began to lead Hastings back down the streets in the direction they had come. He moved quickly as if desperate to get away from the ruins of Ypres and Belgium in general. They had been here only hours and he had already seen quite enough. It had been a visit without purpose, just as he had feared. Hastings followed him in silence as Poirot hurried past the few buildings that remained standing. The streets were eerily empty of people now and to Poirot, it seemed as if the war had taken the lives of everyone else in this ancient city. It felt as if himself and Hastings were the only people left in Belgium, and the idea of this was bringing him little in the way of comfort.

“Are you sure you want to leave Belgium tonight, Poirot?” Hastings asked, breaking the silence once again. He fell into step beside his friend and added, “I mean, this place was your home.”

Poirot shook his head. “Belgium is no longer my home cher ami,” he told his friend flatly, “Poirot has made his home in England. Staying here will do little good. I have no time to waste on sad reflections. The war is over. There is nothing you or I can do here. It is best that we return home and continue on with our hunting.”

Hastings nodded. “Of course.”

The two men continued walking in silence, the night quickly gathering around them and reducing their world to one of darkness. Arthur Hastings and Hercule poirot left Ypres at spead, hurrying back to the docks at Brussels where Poirot fervently hoped that a ferry would be available to them. He would gladly leave this place and he didn’t think that he would be visiting the kingdom of Belgium any time soon either, not unless the solving of a case required him to return.


End file.
